


he was not born a wanderer

by flintshamilton



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Hybristophilia, Isolation, M/M, Minor Character Death, PTSD, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Season/Series 01, Starvation, flagrant abuse of the em dash, or: james murders alfred and thomas thinks it's kind of hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28698162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flintshamilton/pseuds/flintshamilton
Summary: It was only then James informed them of a prize to be sought in London: a lord, whose ransom promised a fortune for every one of them.a pre-series canon divergence in which james rescues thomas from bethlem long before he's able to give up his newfound career in piracy.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton
Comments: 14
Kudos: 73





	he was not born a wanderer

Faint stretches of violet stained the morning sky upon James’ return to Nassau.

Standing alone at the stern of the _Walrus_ , he clutched a piece of rigging in his fist and watched a sliver of sunlight glitter across the water. Scarcely a ripple could be found save for the ones in the ship’s wake, but the fair weather did not soothe his troubled mind.

There was a weariness in his bones, a longing so acutely felt that he struggled to step back and put a name to it. Like a drowning man, he had grappled for something to keep him afloat, but for weeks his buoys had been worlds away and he’d been forced to tread water endlessly instead. The inevitable collapse he faced without the pressure keeping him upright for the sake of the crew had driven him to insomnia.

The waters offered solace where sleep could not, but at the cost of delivering him to a place he loved and feared in tandem.

He turned his back to the sea, finished with it for the time being, to face the bay. The dawn brought an unnatural peace about the town of Nassau while the residents slept off their drunkenness, not unlike his own crew below decks. Only a handful of men on third shift quietly carried out their duties—keeping watch, testing the wind, and generally paying no mind to their captain.

It wouldn't be long now before he would lower a dinghy and row to the beach, only returning to bring their meager haul ashore later that morning.

He had an important matter to attend to first.

Then, as if summoned by that very thought, he spotted a lone figure in a boat bobbing on the incoming tide. It was difficult to make out any detail from such a distance, even with the help of a spyglass—harder still as the color of the man's hair blended almost seamlessly into the golden sand behind him.

The currents carried the _Walrus_ steadily north, and James came to recognize his lover beyond any doubt as they drew nearer. Concern tinged the relief that flooded his veins, making him ill at ease with the realization that Thomas, to have been in town so early and to have spotted his arrival so quickly, must have waited up all night for him, and however many nights before.

James called to drop the starboard anchor to avoid drifting into the shallows while he was otherwise preoccupied, then dismissed the lingering men from their posts and stood at the taffrail, content to watch Thomas' back as he rowed closer in the morning light. After waking in a cold sweat far too many times, terrified that his love had been taken in his sleep, it was a relief just to have him in sight again. Thomas, who would light a candle at their bedside and comfort him without fail, kissing his freckled shoulder while draped across James’ chest or nestled in the crook of his arm. Thomas, who never failed to remind him of the ocean between themselves and the monsters who would dare part them.

(Just as often, it was he who did the comforting after Thomas' nightmare.)

But Captain Flint had no such luxuries, nor any way to confirm Thomas and Miranda hadn't been stolen from him or Nassau hadn't been razed to the ground around them until he could see it with his own eyes.

(He had asked only once if Thomas suffered the same dark visions of clawing through dirt, hopelessly pursuing a ghost as it vanished into the fog. Thomas had declined to answer with a kiss to James’ brow, but it was not the first night he had woken shivering and gasping for breath, and it would not be the last.)

The eight months that had kept him from Thomas were nothing short of agony. Every passing hour, no matter how productive, felt wasted, his every move tinged with the distressing thought that somewhere Thomas was suffering where he was powerless to stop it.

James had struggled to keep any impatience from his voice that cool June morning when he gathered his crew around the main deck. Most of their faces were new to him, their names a mystery he was in no mad dash to solve, but their pockets had been filled and few casualties had been lost since he claimed his position as captain three months before, and so he had easily gained their trust. It was only then he informed them of a prize to be sought in London: a lord, whose ransom promised a fortune for every one of them.

Greedy like little children with sugar-sticky hands, they didn't question how he knew of such a man or where to find him. They thought only of taking their revenge on England by stealing one of her own, or, more likely, of how they would spend their share when the hostage was returned.

Not a full day passed before they set sail.

James pored over his map of the city night after night in the near-three weeks it took to reach London, dissecting the streets he had known all his life to carve a path from the River Thames to Bethlem Royal Hospital. He studied the route until the smoke of the midnight oil burned his eyes: seven miles, roughly a two-hour walk if Thomas was well enough to hurry, three if not. When England at last appeared as a speck in the distance, James stuffed a full set of clothing and shoes into an old medical bag borrowed from the ship's surgeon, finishing his careful preparations.

The _Walrus_ , whose name was not yet infamous enough to draw any unwanted attention, docked among the other merchant ships unloading their wares. While the crew handled the tobacco and sugar and fabrics typically sold through Richard Guthrie, James dressed in his finest clothes, tied his hair back with a ribbon, and set out upon the cobbled streets for the last time, bearing the disguise of a doctor and a gentleman.

The Hamiltons, long before their respective exile and incarceration, had once told him with disgust of the latest pastime of some of their peers: paying admission to visit a lunatic asylum, wandering the halls and marveling at the patients as if they were wild animals pacing their cages in a zoo. The tuppence fee, they claimed, helped keep the hospital in operation. It was charity, a good deed, and the entertainment provided by the raving maniacs was a gift for their generous philanthropy.

When James arrived at Bethlem close to midnight, there was only one staffer around, as he had suspected; a guard, meant to ensure the patients didn't escape or cause mayhem long after the doctors went home. It was highly unusual for a man to visit a sanitarium alone so late in the night, but, as James had also suspected, the man was only too eager to take a bribe.

"I'm crafting a set of teeth," he said, unfastening the leather satchel to withdraw a set of pliers and clicking them together like a crocodile's jaws, "for a wealthy client. I'll pay handsomely if you can assist me."

In exchange, he received a tour through the dark, winding halls of the hospital, reminding James more of the dungeons he’d seen in books as a boy than a place any man could ever hope to get well. Dampness had seeped into the very bricks of Bethlem, illuminated by crackling torches every few paces but never warmed enough to dry out the mildew. Screams echoed ceaselessly through the corridors, and James, who had so far had the good fortune to never know the sound of Thomas in pain or terror, couldn’t be sure which of them might have belonged to him.

They stopped before several cells and the guard ordered the frightened patients within to bare their teeth for James to inspect. Barely concealing his anger, he considered each one, always with an arbitrary excuse as to why theirs were unacceptable—rot, discoloration, too small, too wide—so they could return to their threadbare cots in peace. He wrinkled his nose after the fifth inmate, a gesture he picked up from the worst of the upper-class pricks he had met as part of Thomas' crusade.

"Surely you must have something better," he said.

The unsettling twinkle in the guard's eye would haunt James for the rest of his life.

He led James through a locked door tucked into a dusty alcove, down a drafty corridor with cells lining only the left side. This part of the asylum, James noticed with a sinking feeling in his chest, was quieter than the rest. No wailing, no ramblings, no pleading with a higher power for mercy. Just eerie, unnatural silence.

"Sorry for the cold," said the guard, taking a torch from the wall. "Doctor says it makes the treatments more effective."

James dug his nails into his palm so sharply he drew blood, concealing it with his sleeve and allowing the warm trickle to ground him. "What sort of treatments?"

The tour came to an abrupt end at the last cell before the guard could answer. James’ stomach twisted as he stepped forward to peer through the interwoven bars at the top of the door, afraid of finding Thomas there and terrified of not finding him at all.

There was a man inside, huddled in the far corner, shivering violently with his knees gathered to his chest. He wore only a white linen shirt, no thicker than bedclothes for the warmest summer nights and entirely transparent after being drenched in water. His blond hair was scarcely able to be identified as such, shorn so carelessly that pieces of various lengths stuck out at odd angles all over. James could hear the chattering of his teeth even over his own pounding heartbeat.

"Ice baths," he answered at last.

James stood motionless, his eyes never leaving Thomas. "And if he dies? Loses a limb to the cold?"

"Most families don't send 'em here if they can't stand our treatments," he said, utterly unmoved for the souls who could not. "He's completely mad, and a sodomite besides. Spent weeks screamin' and spittin' at a father who weren't there. What else is there to do? Let him wander the streets and terrorize people?"

Without waiting for an answer, the guard whistled as if he were calling a dog.

Thomas turned his head, allowing James to see his face for the first time in almost a year. He was thinner, paler, with dark circles beneath his eyes betraying his lack of sleep. A bruise marred his left cheek, and James knew there were likely many more were hidden beneath his clothing. The spirit and will to live James had loved so dearly were gone from him, but a fleeting glimpse of them returned when he found James standing before him, with only a flimsy door keeping them apart rather than death itself. Though he looked as if he had seen a ghost, he said nothing to give James or the game away.

Brilliant, even when half-frozen and terrified and broken.

"Teeth," barked the guard.

When Thomas stumbled into the light of the torch, his lips were blue.

James stretched his arm through the bars, taking Thomas’ chin in hand as gently as he could without appearing as if he were being kind. Thomas cooperated, not breaking eye contact while James massaged his jaw and coaxed his mouth open to feign a brief inspection.

"Good enough," James declared without taking even a cursory glance at his teeth, refusing to tear his eyes from Thomas’ that long. He fished his pliers from his bag and snapped them again for dramatic effect. "I'll just need two molars, perhaps three."

Thomas lurched, eyes like saucers, and it was almost enough for James to drop the act until he realized he was playacting for his benefit. What sort of patient, after all, wouldn't startle at the thought of having their teeth pulled?

"Right, then," said the guard, removing a ring of keys from his belt. "Don't worry about him bitin', I'll whip the daylights out of him if he so much as thinks about it."

In his hours upon hours of plotting, James had always intended to allow the guard to unlock Thomas’ cell before moving to the next step of his plan, but the offhand comment about beating Thomas rushed him just slightly. When the right key was finally found, James plunged the pliers into the flesh of his throat, then pried the rusted door open and shoved his way inside as the guard lay gurgling and choking on the floor.

" _Thomas_." He crushed his trembling lover to his chest and cradled the back of his head, concealing his face against the frigid skin of his neck.

Part of him expected rejection. If he were entirely honest, a rarity, a smaller part even hoped for it. He could never wish for Thomas to hate him, but his anger would lessen the unbearable weight of the guilt James had carried since he fled London in disgrace and abandoned the man he loved.

Instead, Thomas had resuscitated in his arms like a flower after a frost, clinging to him with the fervor of a man who expected someone to burst in and tear them apart at any moment. "I thought, I thought..." He said, his breath hitching, and James couldn't be sure whether he was about to sob or scream.

"Thomas," James murmured, tender in a way he hadn't allowed himself to be in months—not with Miranda, not even with himself. He carded his fingers through Thomas' patchwork hair, holding him just as desperately until his heartbeat finally slowed within his chest. "It's all right. I'm going to take you away from here."

It seemed to shake Thomas from his trance, and he turned to face the dead man lying outside his door with a nauseated expression, the first of many obstacles between themselves and their freedom. It was then James spotted the blood streaked across Thomas’ back, and his momentary horror only died down with the realization that he had put it there himself. It was the guard’s blood, mingled with the blood from the cut on his palm, but not Thomas’.

Thomas offered no protest in dragging the body inside to replace his own, turning his head to avoid seeing the carnage James had wrought. When they finished, James pushed the surgeon’s bag into Thomas' hands, thankfully cleaner than his own. "Here. Get dressed."

There would be no more formalities or endearments until they were safe aboard the _Walrus_ and Bethlem was only a fading memory. They would have time enough for them later, years of it.

Thomas stripped from his sopping wet nightshirt, one that barely fell to mid-thigh while standing, and cast it aside. He unknowingly confirmed James' new worst fear as he pulled on the secondhand clothes, one that replaced the thought of Thomas having already succumbed to sickness or suicide or mistreatment under the guise of making him well again.

His ribs were painted with a spectrum of colorful bruises in varying stages of healing. The doctors had not yet managed to beat him to death, but not for a lack of trying.

"I'll kill them. Whoever did this, Thomas, I'll cut their throats, I swear upon God himself—"

James hadn't realized he had spoken aloud, nor did he recall drawing the knife hidden in his boot, until Thomas clasped his face in his hands and betrayed a fire within him that no torturer could ever hope to extinguish.

"James. Look at me." Thomas showed no fear at the weapon in James’ hand, never breaking his gaze to spare a glance for it. He was calm, commanding, more lordly than any man James had ever met, even ones that outranked Thomas. “We can’t stay here. It isn’t worth it.”

In return, James broke the second rule of the night by grasping blindly for Thomas and pressing their foreheads together, yearning to breathe his air and feel the warmth of his exhale upon his skin in return. He was alive, and no amount of bloodshed would satisfy James that night as much as delivering him to a place where they would never find him again.

The rest of the city could burn, but he wouldn't remain long enough to strike the match.

A stolen carriage eased the burden of travel, and the _Walrus_ set sail with its prisoner securely aboard long before the sunrise cast its glow upon Bethlem and revealed its missing patient.

In retrospect, James couldn't be sure of exactly when the ruse of holding Thomas for ransom began to unravel. It must have seemed strange for their high-born captive to arrive injured, underfed, and sporting a remarkably slipshod haircut. Perhaps the bruises and secondhand clothing could be explained away as a stubborn hostage needing a disguise to be smuggled successfully from London, but what would be more difficult to understand was why their merciless, bloodthirsty captain was handling the lord with such care, bordering even on possessiveness.

After helping Thomas down from the deserted carriage, not trusting him to stay upright with the way he'd been starved in recent months, James stripped off his coat and draped it across his shoulders. With a hand on the small of Thomas' back, he guided him slowly up the gangplank beneath the watchful gaze of a pack of wolves eyeing a graceless newborn fawn. Gates’ look of confusion as he ushered Thomas to the captain’s cabin, half-hidden under his leather coat and handled with a gentler touch than perhaps any resident of Nassau but Miranda would have thought him capable of, did not escape his notice.

It was typical for the captain to celebrate a successful venture with the rest of his crew. Instead, he gave an order to put England to their rudder and disappeared, emerging only once that night to fetch two bowls of vegetable stew without a word to anyone.

With insides too knotted to consider eating, James sat Thomas at his desk, placed both bowls in front of him, and watched as he choked down the first before the second could cool. They didn’t speak, utterly exhausted, and if not for James’ concern about feeding him before any irreparable damage was done, he would have felt guilt for keeping Thomas awake any longer.

Not until a bit of color returned to Thomas’ cheeks beneath the bruises did James kneel beside his chair and gently press his forehead to Thomas’s bicep, exhaling for the first time since he had laid eyes on his lover in a twisted mockery of a hospital. The words he had once planned so carefully warred on his tongue from his humble position. Nothing he could say would atone for what he had done—not only for the abandonment of his truest love, but for the countless sins he had committed to return to him. He begged for forgiveness in silence without daring to hope for it, not until he heard the clink of metal against clay and felt a trembling hand rest on the back of his head.

“James,” Thomas rasped.

James braced himself for the worst. It didn’t matter, he had reasoned once. He didn’t have to be Thomas’ and Thomas didn’t have to be his, just as long as he was alive. But it had been far easier to make that bargain when they were separated by months and countless miles and perhaps even death itself.

The facts, as they were, remained: Thomas was alive, and James was selfish, and the thought of living without him ached like a knife between his ribs.

“I’m sorry," James whispered.

“Don’t - don’t dare.”

The spoon fell from Thomas' fingers and clattered against the desk, splashing broth across James’ papers. James might have been troubled by the state of them had Thomas not chosen that moment to slide from the chair down to his knees, gripping James’ shoulder on the way down, letting his fingers roam across James’ cheek as if he were trying to memorize him through touch. “Don’t… You can’t possibly know, James, what you’ve done. I would have kissed my father had he been the one to free me from that place. Please don’t ever apologize for that.”

James’ mouth twisted into a grimace. “You would reward the man who imprisoned you.”

“The one who rescued me,” Thomas corrected, grazing the pad of his thumb across James’ cheekbone with a look so gentle it physically pained him. “You saved me from hell on Earth, my love, what could you ever be sorry for?”

James ignored the urge to pull away, unable to withdraw from Thomas’ comforting touch no matter how undeserving of it he believed himself to be. “It was my selfishness that put you in Bethlem and my cowardice that kept you there, Thomas. You would have never known hell if not for me.”

He expected Thomas to push him away or crumble entirely in the face of his betrayer, but he smiled, even as his eyes grew watery.

“Our love was never selfish, James.” His wandering thumb brushed across James’ lower lip, reminding him of so many languid, rainy mornings spent laying together in Thomas’ featherbed. “I wouldn’t trade one day of it to spare myself from Bethlem, not even the ones I spent awaiting your return. I won’t bear to watch you waste another minute tearing yourself apart over something…”

The thought drifted away before James’ eyes, unfinished. Thomas’ pale complexion had returned, waxier than when James found him in a cell, and his once-piercing blue eyes had lost their focus.

“Thomas?” James asked, his confusion giving way to worry. He tightened his hold on Thomas’ wrist, shaking him in an attempt to snap him out of the daze he'd spiraled into. “What is it?”

Recognition dawned on Thomas’ face just before he sprang to his feet and rushed for the porthole.

“I should have thought of it,” James murmured between heaves, staying pressed close to Thomas’ side as every muscle in his body trembled. He stroked Thomas’ hair until the contents of his stomach were emptied into the ocean. “I should have known you would need to pace yourself to avoid getting ill. I’m sorry.”

He was unsure if Thomas had even heard him until he finally lifted his head, less green but far more tired. “I— Please— Can I—?”

Without Thomas having to say anything more, James carefully swept him up into his arms and carried him across the room to his bunk. He slept fitfully for two days, waking only briefly for a few gulps of water provided by James, who propped up his head and shushed him gently until he slipped into another few hours of merciful rest. He refused to leave his side, putting the wheel in Gates’ capable hands and finishing various bits of paperwork long overdue, always with one eye on his sleeping beloved. Exhaustion set in by the early hours of the third morning, despite James’ commitment to staying awake in case Thomas asked for him. Surrendering to that most basic need, he stretched out on the floor beneath the bed where Thomas laid, unwilling and unable to be any further away from him.

Several hours or mere minutes might have passed—the sunlight streaming in was little indication—before he awoke to Thomas’ fingertips skimming across his arm.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered from above. He added, then, so faintly James strained to hear him, “He told me you were dead.”

James blinked awake, brushing his own fingers against Thomas’ as the wooden planks swayed above his head. “Who?”

“Peter Ashe. He said a pirate by the name of Captain Flint captured your ship en route to Nassau, that neither you nor Miranda survived.”

James’ jaw tightened, causing a muscle beneath his eyelid to twitch. “Miranda lives. So does Captain Flint.”

“Is that what you’re calling yourself now?”

That Thomas had come to that conclusion on his own was not surprising—James could never hide from him, not from the very first day. “James McGraw could not have rescued you so easily,” he reasoned.

“I vowed to kill you, you know,” said Thomas as he wove their fingers together, and the juxtaposition between his gentle touch and his murderous words made James snort. “I had nothing to live for but revenge. I’m sure you can understand that.”

When James didn’t answer, as there was no need, he continued, “He must have been mistaken. You disappeared among Captain Flint’s hunting grounds, it isn’t an unreasonable conclusion. But I cannot fathom why he would choose to tell me, even if he believed it to be true.”

Though he couldn’t see it, James could picture the thoughtful little crease between Thomas’ brows with stunning clarity. His optimism, the sheer stubbornness with which he insisted on seeing the best in everyone, made James’ voice rough. “He may have spoken in error or received false information,” he said hesitantly. “When we failed to write, it’s possible that assumptions were made and gossip did the rest.”

“You don’t sound confident.”

“I’m not,” he said, unsure if it would soften the blow or if he were merely twisting the blade. James lifted their intertwined hands and brushed his lips against Thomas’ knuckles, more prominent than ever with how thin he had become, and with an air of composure and amiability, he added, “It doesn’t matter. We have no way of knowing for certain, not without returning to London.”

“What now?” Thomas whispered. “What will become of us? Of Captain Flint?”

“He served his purpose,” James insisted, unable to keep a tone as level as he had hoped. He pressed his face into Thomas’ hand, grounding himself with the cool touch. “You’re safe. There’s no need for him anymore.”

“But you aren’t ready to give him up,” Thomas quietly observed.

It was not lost on James that he had become the very problem Thomas had once sought his help to solve, a pirate more skilled at striking fear into people’s hearts than any Thomas had heard of even in the darkest of tales. The man Thomas loved hadn’t killed someone in cold blood and vowed to kill countless more, as many as had dared to cooperate in the smallest way with Alfred Hamilton’s plan; that was Captain Flint, and James couldn’t be sure Thomas would ever accept that bloodthirsty creature that stood in James McGraw’s place and spoke with his voice.

“This anger,” he whispered, closing his eyes and forcing the words past a painfully dry throat, “this rage, it will drive me to madness if I attempt to deny it. I cannot rest while those who harmed you sleep peacefully in their beds at night. Not until they've felt your terror. Not until Captain Flint has shown them the same mercy they spared for you.”

When Thomas didn’t answer, James knew he had lost him forever.

He dared not open his eyes to watch Thomas leave, waiting for the inevitable sound of footsteps leaving his cabin. Only when an agonizing minute passed did he compel himself to face the disappointment of the man he loved.

What he found instead were tufts of blond hair and striking blue eyes peeking over the side of the bed, having watched him wince and squirm all the while.

“I’m afraid I’m a rather poor sailor,” Thomas murmured, moving his hand to stroke James’ cheek, “and you know how I react to the sight of blood.”

The Hamilton’s cook had once injured himself preparing a roast while he, Thomas and Miranda were drinking wine in the parlor. The cut was not as severe as the amount of blood had implied, and a clean rag tied around his hand had more or less remedied the situation. Thomas, however, had nearly given himself a concussion when he stumbled at the sight of it, and James had been tasked with getting him out of the room before he maimed himself. Until his brief illness after boarding the _Walrus_ , it was the most pale James had ever seen him. “I do.”

“I imagine all that’s left for me is swabbing the decks, then.”

The answer briefly stunned James into silence. “You don’t mean it.”

“I’ll have to earn my keep somehow.” Thomas’ tone was amused, certainly, but never mocking and nothing less than sincere. “I cannot rely on your kindness forever. The crew would resent me for it.”

James only narrowly avoided hitting his head on the bed above him when he sat up, already missing the warmth of Thomas’ touch. “For God’s sake, Thomas, you hate pirates.”

Thomas, laying on his stomach, tucked his arms beneath his head to prop up his chin and scoffed at the accusation. “There’s one pirate I happen to be rather fond of, actually,” he reminded his beloved. “You should know better than anyone that I never hated the pirates, James, if I were willing to risk my career and my reputation to pardon them. I just wanted to return Nassau to English rule and please my father, and neither seems to be a pressing concern any longer.”

James resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but barely. “Your sympathy for them—us—does not mean you can or should join a pirate crew.”

“Am I to stay locked away in your cabin forever, then?” He argued, and despite James vehemently disagreeing with him, his heart swelled simply because Thomas sounded like _Thomas_ again.

“Miranda and I have a cottage far inland, away from the bay.”

“Away from the pirates, you mean.”

“Precisely.”

“And I’m to remain there, ever awaiting your return? Perhaps I’ll learn needlepoint to occupy my time.”

Far from the saint James had crafted in his mind in Thomas’ absence was the man before him, mischievous and proud and so deeply loved it stole James’ breath. With him came his irksome habit of almost always being right, and James slid back into his role of his challenger so easily it felt as if no time had passed at all. “Might I hear your suggestion? Leave yourself vulnerable?” He countered, the corner of his mouth rising. “A man so handsome, well-spoken, and untrained in the art of fighting will quickly find himself a target.”

“For robbery?”

“If we’re lucky.”

Thomas rolled onto his back as he considered it. “I’m not as skilled with a sword as you are, but I do have other strengths that may prove quite valuable.”

He was right, of course.

A year had passed in relative peace and ease, especially for Thomas. The most rudimentary training in arithmetic would have placed him leagues above most men on the island, much less an Eton education, and his honesty endeared him to every crew whose books he worked to set right. Despite James’ hopes to keep him hidden away, far from the cutthroat killers and thieves who would take great pleasure in eating a lord alive, he had opened a one-room accounting business in the heart of Nassau within months of his arrival. Where James had commanded respect through intimidation and prowess, Thomas had earned it simply by being Thomas.

Miranda said once that he might still become governor after all with the way he so easily gained popularity and favor, but Thomas insisted he had set his sights much lower and was perfectly content where he was. James couldn’t be sure whether he was referring to his spot comfortably nestled against James’ side on the sofa with a book in hand, or if he was speaking more generally of his position in Nassau, but in the end, he supposed it didn’t make much of a difference.

The memory of Thomas’ warmth, however, was not as comforting as it had once been, though it was James’ own guilt that made him reluctant to accept it. After what had occurred over the course of the _Walrus_ ’ latest expedition, the last thing he deserved from Thomas was kindness. But even at the cost of turning Thomas against him, of perhaps losing him forever, James still could not bring himself to regret what he had done.

Before he could brace himself, Thomas was near enough to take the Jacob’s ladder. Up close, James could better see the simple shirt and breeches would have been out of place even for a servant in the Hamilton mansion, much less the lord, but as Thomas himself often stressed, that man was missing, soon to be declared dead _in absentia_. The title and lineage would die with Alfred Hamilton, which left him free to live out his life as the lover and abettor of a notorious pirate captain.

Blond hair appeared over the side—more evenly trimmed than when he had first climbed aboard many months before—followed by a pair of eager, soft eyes, and James thought he would have rather faced a cannon in that moment than Thomas after he had failed him.

“James,” he breathed. Without bothering to look around for any lingering crewman, he launched himself into the arms of his beloved. James gathered him and held him tightly to his chest, letting his eyes fall closed for one brief, indulgent moment as he tucked his nose beneath Thomas’ ear.

“We have to talk,” he said, so quiet and reluctant that perhaps Thomas hadn’t heard him at all.

Thomas stepped back, sliding his hands to James’ shoulders and searching his face for answers, evidently with little success. James spared a glance at the crow’s nest to ensure there were no witnesses before resting a hand on Thomas’ back, guiding him toward his cabin.

Thomas pressed the door closed behind himself, attempting a smile. “So, have the crew finally begun to ask where my ransom is?”

Despite his unease, James huffed a laugh under his breath. He wandered aimlessly through his cabin, taking a sudden interest in the titles on his bookshelf. “No, I believe they’ve come to accept that there won’t be a ransom for you. Perhaps it would be easier to swallow if not for the meager profit from this last haul.”

“You’re turning out to be a rather poor pirate, darling,” said Thomas kindly, but his expression of amusement was replaced swiftly with one of concern. “You’re not in trouble, are you?”

In trouble, of course, meaning _in danger of a mutiny_ , but James knew Thomas valued his pride too much to voice the thought.

“Not for the reasons you’re thinking.” James turned and settled at the edge of his swinging bed, fixing his gaze on the toe of his boot. “This venture was more personal than profitable.”

“Personal?”

He pinched his eyes shut, vowing to never keep another secret from Thomas were he ever given the opportunity, the privilege, again. The truth was imminent, unavoidable, and James cherished the last few precious moments before it ripped them apart.

“Miranda received a letter—” Thomas flinched at the word as if he’d been struck, increasing James’ guilt tenfold. It required every scrap of his self-control to press on rather than take Thomas in his arms and drop the matter entirely. “A _note_ , several weeks ago from one of your former maids. Phillipa, I believe.” He swallowed, hesitating, but it bought him only so much time. “She happened to mention the earl would be traveling to Charles Town. Named the ship in passing, told her when it would sail. A perfectly innocent attempt to keep her informed of the goings-on in London, for fear that she was homesick.”

Thomas’ face was indescribable—all James knew was he wished to never see it cross his handsome features again. His attempts at stoicism and denial both failed, he couldn’t look James in the eye when asked in a quivering voice, “Has he arrived yet in Charles Town?”

“No,” James replied, detached and unemotional as if he were speaking of a man he’d never personally met, as if he were simply relaying a story he’d heard at sea. “The _Maria Aleyne_ was ambushed off the coast of Carolina. The fourth Earl of Ashbourne was killed in the ensuing struggle, as was his traveling companion.”

The more James studied Thomas’ expression, the more he came to realize he had seen it once, a lifetime before, upon hearing of the fate of Governor Thompson and his family. The only difference was James, for this particular tragedy, had traded his navy uniform for the costume of a dastardly pirate.

“This… mission of yours,” said Thomas, emphasizing each word in an attempt to process them individually. The long-fingered hand not pressed against the door opened and closed aimlessly, grasping at nothing. “It was an execution. You plotted with Miranda to kill my father.”

“Miranda was not involved.” Another lie, but he couldn’t bear for Thomas to hate them both when Alfred Hamilton’s blood was on his hands alone. “She disclosed the contents of the letter, that’s all. I was the one who made the decision to—”

“To hunt him down like some wild beast.”

James paused, certain he had misunderstood. There was a curious lack of anguish in Thomas’ face at a second glance, however, replaced by interest seemingly bordering on absorption. “Like an animal, yes,” he said slowly, testing the waters. “That’s what he deserved.”

“What did he say?”

James watched Thomas approach out of the corner of his eye. As cordial as ever, his polite fascination was on full display even when James wasn’t looking directly at him.

“He begged for his life. Offered me money. I thought he might offer to release you, assuming I was unaware of your escape, but instead he chose to die by my hand.” A sick sense of satisfaction flooded his veins at the memory, so intense there was no stopping it from boiling over and exposing him for the monster he was. “I hope he’s forced to witness every moment of our happiness while he rots—”

The remainder of the thought died against Thomas’ lips.

James sighed into the kiss, clasping Thomas’ face and pulling him impossibly closer. The taste of him, the warmth of the hands roaming across his back, made him feel human again for the first time since his departure from Nassau. He allowed his own hands to wander, finding purchase in Thomas’ locks and giving a slight tug.

The force of it broke Thomas from the kiss, tipping his head back. His pink lips, flushed from James’ efforts, parted around an exhale. “Oh, I missed you.”

Given a moment to catch his breath without the liquor of Thomas’ kiss intoxicating him, James couldn’t fathom what had suddenly possessed him. “Thomas,” he said, interrupted more than once by his beloved seeking more kisses. With firm hands on his shoulders, he commanded Thomas’ attention just long enough to ask his pressing question: “Thomas, don’t you understand? Your father is dead.”

“My _father_ ,” Thomas snarled, and though James had once assumed the two to be mutually exclusive, he managed to sound both aroused and disgusted at once. “We would both be long dead if he had his way, and I’m to mourn him?”

Those simple words found James standing in the hold of the _Maria Aleyne_ once more, blood-drenched sword in hand. He’d never known a more hateful man than Alfred Hamilton and only one more traitorous; nor had he ever known someone so gentle as Thomas. James had been willing to risk his love to see his father destroyed, but there Thomas was before him, pupils blown and cock stiff against his hip.

He brushed their noses together and ghosted a kiss across Thomas’ mouth, his flushed reflection mirrored in Thomas’ blown pupils. “You don’t owe him a thing, least of all your grief.”

There was an ease of tension at the corners of Thomas’s eyes, despite his remarkable self-assurance. The victim’s own son fearing the killer might judge his lack of remorse—James might have laughed had he not been so terribly distracted.

“You can’t really be excited by this,” he murmured against Thomas’ full lips, teasing rather than expressing any actual disbelief.

“And if I am?” Thomas challenged, searching James’ face with flitting eyes. “I could ask the same of you, _Lieutenant_.”

The word sent a shiver up James’ spine, and Thomas was only too aware of its effect. He’d once hated to hear it from Thomas, as it could only mean they were among others and had to maintain an air of propriety by reverting to titles with one another. But while the rest of the world knew him now as Captain Flint, he was still a lieutenant for only one man, just as he had been in their first clumsy, lovesick days of exploring each other.

James took the initiative by quickly removing his boots and trousers, leaving them pooled together in the middle of the floor. He then seated himself upon his bed, drawing Thomas in to stand between his bare legs, and, taking one end of Thomas’ cravat between his fingers, he tugged it like a loose thread until it unraveled to expose the length of his neck. His skin was perfectly tanned, flawless and unblemished, but James was determined not to leave it that way for long.

When Thomas whispered his name, it thrummed against James’ teeth.

“Yes, Thomas?” He asked against the purpling bruise, placed just above his jugular. “Am I neglecting you?”

Thomas groaned, sensing James’ mood. “You want me to beg for it.”

“I certainly wouldn’t mind it,” James confessed. “Remember, it was you who taught me the art of delayed gratification in the first place.”

It was difficult to recall a time when he had been perfectly unsatisfied by faceless tugs in dark alleys before Thomas had opened a door to pleasures entirely foreign to him, ones he’d once believed he was undeserving of. Thomas, who convinced him to chase what he desired and seize it with both hands rather than deny himself through a misplaced sense of penance. With the patience of a former navy man, James was keen on dragging out their pleasure for as long as possible, basking in Thomas’ heat and stoking the embers with lingering touches and murmurs of affection.

Thomas, however, was of another mind entirely. Before James could process the sudden change of altitude, he was lying flat across his bed with Thomas kneeling above him, but the delicious pressure provided by this new position made James rather agreeable to the mutiny.

“Perhaps, but I’ve also learned a few things from the pirates.” To punctuate his claim, Thomas slowly rubbed their lengths together with a roll of hips, tearing moans from them both. “For instance, there’s little point in negotiating when you have the upper hand.”

James, who could not have been a more willing victim, wriggled a bit for the game’s sake with a knowing grin. “You think you can overpower me without a sword or pistol?”

“Oh, I have something far more effective than that.”

Unhappy with the way James was squirming about, Thomas took his wrists in hand and pinned them above his head. James tilted his chin up in response, offering himself to be kissed by his captor, and did not mask his disappointment when Thomas rose far out of reach. There had always been a surprising strength to Thomas beneath his silk and brocade, and James had endlessly enjoyed being the focus of it—playing the rabbit to his wolf—since they had first fallen into bed together.

“Now that you have me,” he panted, aiming a look of roguish defiance at his lover, “what exactly do you plan to do with me?”

Shifting James’ hands to one of his own with little effort, Thomas retrieved a small flask of oil from his trouser pocket, stopped with a cork—cooking oil, by the looks of it.

James choked. “You came prepared.”

“You’ve been away for weeks. Did you actually expect me to make it to shore before having you?” Thomas questioned, shaking the bottle between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re sorely mistaken.”

“Not as sore as I would have been without it,” James replied, prompting a light smack to his flank and sending them both into barely-suppressed fits of giggling.

Thomas, still failing to hide the way his mouth twitched at the corners, was forced to leave James’ hands unattended to work open his own breeches. He flung them in the same general direction as James’ before he uncorked the bottle, letting a fat droplet of oil coat his fingers.

James spread his legs a bit wider in anticipation, only for Thomas to reach behind his back rather than between James’ thighs.

“I’m sorry, dear,” he said around a bitten-off moan as he eased two slick fingers inside himself. “Am I— _mmm_ —neglecting you?”

“You cruel man,” James lamented, gripping the upper edge of the bed to resist reaching for Thomas. The only stimulation he was gifted, aside from the heavenly view of Thomas riding his own fingers, was the occasional graze of their cocks as his lover eased himself open, taking his time and indulging in the simple pleasure of the act. He resolved to hold almost painfully still for as long as Thomas needed him to, craving the loss of control just as much as Thomas desired to have it.

James’ show of pretending to be disappointed was rapidly abandoned in favor of staring at his lover, openly admiring him from below. Thomas smiled when he caught him watching, his mouth falling open around a soft moan as he added a third digit.

Lost in the sight of him shivering at every brush of his own fingers against his prostate, James was snapped suddenly out of his daydream when Thomas placed a hand on his shoulder to steady himself as he hovered above him. James instinctively reached out to help him balance, only for Thomas to sweep both hands into another firm, overhead grip.

The noise that escaped his lips as a result was most unsuitable for a pirate, James thought, but he would challenge any other fearsome captain not to have the same reaction while being manhandled by Thomas Hamilton.

“Bring a piece of rope next time,” James suggested, surprising even himself with his desire to be tied down. Judging by the expression on Thomas’ face, however, it seemed he was hardly opposed to the idea himself.

His eyes never leaving James’ face, Thomas adjusted minutely before finally, finally sliding down the hard length of James’ cock, inch by inch until he seated himself between his lover’s hips.

“ _James_ ,” he whispered as reverently as a prayer.

 _I would die for you_ , James thought, not for the first time.

Thomas tilted his head back to expose the length of his throat, bruised and bitten beyond recognition, and released a long, stuttering sigh of satisfaction as he adjusted to James’ size. It was in that instant James came to realize there was no violent retribution, no perverse satisfaction to be gained from killing those who had harmed them, that could ever compare to the sight before him. He would never feel remorse for ending Alfred Hamilton’s life, but to risk losing Thomas in the process was the most foolish thing he had ever done.

It was difficult to truly feel regretful with the way Thomas had reacted, but James was determined to take something meaningful from it regardless.

“Darling.” Thomas eased a hand along his jawline, beaming like the sunrise when he finally caught James’ attention. “What could you possibly be thinking about at a time like this?”

A smile broke across James’ face as he turned to press his lips to Thomas’ palm. “You. Only ever you.”

“I would hope so. I’m rather— _ah!_ —rather vain that way.”

For as long as Thomas had gone without, he established a rhythm so quickly it took James’ breath. The vice-like heat, combined with the intoxicating image of Thomas using his cock as nothing but a tool to pleasure himself with, was far too much for James to resist after denying himself for long, especially not when he had expected to be denied for much longer than that.

After releasing James’ wrists from their hold, Thomas’ broad hands roamed his body, his every touch heightened on James’ pinkened, freckled, overheated skin even through the fabric of his shirt. They didn’t stop until they reached James’ shoulders, and Thomas had to bite his lip to keep from crying out when the new angle caused James to strike his prostate directly. James couldn’t help noticing Thomas’ face had moved dangerously close to his own, placed in a perfect position to steal the kisses he’d been robbed of before, and Thomas’ reaction was such an amicable one that James couldn’t help wondering if perhaps that was intentional.

Thomas, never one to shy away from expressing his satisfaction, released a soft, breathy moan as he raised and lowered himself on James’ cock with the strength of his thighs alone. Noises of delighted surprise spilled freely from his reddened lips after that, swollen from being nipped at and kissed, and James was sure his looked much the same by the way they still tingled even after Thomas pulled away.

“James,” Thomas purred, utterly wrecked in a way that made James’ cock twitch to warn him of how dangerously close he was. He leaned back again, searching for the best angle while massaging James’ pectorals almost as an afterthought. “James, please, I—”

James wrapped his fingers around Thomas’ length, his eyes never once left Thomas’ face as it contorted in ecstasy, and stroked a mere handful of times before Thomas was spilling across their bellies, tossing his head back with a shuddering cry.

There was never much hope of James lasting very long, not with the time spent apart from his lover or the improbable, yet undeniable way in which Thomas seemed to grow more handsome whenever James looked away, be it from a weeks-long voyage or simply waking up in the morning. His orgasm hit like a rogue wave—unanticipated, earth-shattering, and leaving him rather in need of a towel.

Thomas, still breathing heavily above him with his eyes half-lidded, put his remarkable grace to good use while repositioning them to allow James to lay on top with their legs intertwined. When all was said and done, neither of them had tumbled out of the swinging bed, which James considered a rousing success with the few remaining thoughts his brain could generate post-climax. With a kiss beneath Thomas’ chin, smoothly-shaven and soft to the touch with the way his diet had improved, and an arm wound tightly across his middle, James tucked his nose into the hollow of Thomas’ collarbone and let his eyes drift closed.

“I have to confess,” he mumbled, “I would have killed Alfred sooner if I’d known I would receive this sort of welcome.”

Thomas, who had begun to card his fingers through James’ hair—at what point in their lovemaking it escaped its leather cord, James couldn’t say for certain—hummed in acknowledgment. “I would have tried to stop you,” he admitted. “I’m glad I didn’t know. God knows how Miranda kept it to herself all this time.”

“As if you’re any stranger to her skill at keeping secrets,” said James with dry amusement. It was overshadowed, however, by Thomas’ admission, which left a familiar hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“He was sailing to Charles Town to attend the inauguration of Governor Peter Ashe.”

James let the words, the unspoken promise within them, linger in the air, adjusting where he rested on Thomas’ chest for a better vantage point of his lover’s reaction. He had skirted too close to upsetting Thomas beyond his bounds of forgiveness to ever risk it again. If he showed the slightest sign of aversion to the idea, he would allow Peter to live, no matter how his fingers twitched for a blade even at the mention of his name.

Thomas, still scratching idly at James’ scalp, said at last, “I read the letter again while you were away.”

James didn’t bother to ask which one he was referring to—there was only one letter important enough to earn such a distinction. _The_ letter. He could quote the entire page from memory, had the ink spots at the bottom near Peter’s signature seared into his brain.

_Forgive me for waiting so long to write, but my efforts to have Thomas released have taken every spare moment of my time._

_I regret to inform you that those efforts were in vain._

__

__

_I’m so terribly sorry for your loss._

“I could slit his throat just for frightening Miranda,” said James, staring through the wall without seeing it. “We were days away from arriving in Nassau and she had no way of knowing it.”

Thomas twitched beneath him. When James raised his head in concern, fearing Thomas had been overcome with emotion at the memory, he realized he was desperately trying to keep from laughing.

“How terrified must he have been to hear of my escape,” he asked, “knowing the letter was already in transit and there was nothing he could do to stop it?”

With just a look from Thomas, the rage boiling beneath James’ skin had reduced to a simmer. He found himself powerless against the urge to kiss the man he loved, smiling against Thomas’ trembling lips. “Not as terrified as he’ll be when he hears of your father’s fate.”

Thomas pushed off before he could say any more, allowing his soft, twitching cock to slide free. James used the time to simply bask in the sight of Thomas dressing himself in the golden sunlight streaming in through the window, propping his head up by tucking his hands beneath it and feeling more well-rested than he had since his departure from Nassau.

“Enjoying the show?” Thomas asked fondly, with only one leg in his trousers.

“Immensely,” James murmured, shameless in his adoration.

Thomas returned the infatuated look as he inserted his other leg. With sex-mussed hair, kiss-stung lips, and wrinkled clothing, he looked positively delectable, and James found himself sitting up and reaching for his hand to draw him in simply because he could, and because he refused to take such a vision for granted ever again. Thomas rubbed his face against James’ bearded cheek and made a soft, contented sound, reminding him of the cat that had taken up residence in their cottage as of late, one James still refused to concede any hidden fondness for.

“Let’s go home,” he said softly, his breath warm and his voice alluring.

 _Home_. Despite the months passed and the comfortable living he and Thomas and Miranda had established for themselves in that time, James could hardly fathom the idea of having them to himself, of having solid ground beneath his feet and a pillow beneath his head and a little vegetable patch that still required weeding, last James had checked. It was more than he deserved or dreamed of before the Hamiltons had shown him it was possible, but he was a pirate, and so he would hoard those precious things like rubies and gold.

It was only then he noticed his eyes had closed while he was lost in thought, his chin supported on Thomas’ shoulder for his momentary nap. “May I sleep first?”

Thomas’ laughter reverberated through his entire body. “I brought a dinghy so you could slip away before the launch. I suggest you take it.”

James lifted his head, awake and incredulous. “You’re going to take my place?”

With a single finger, Thomas lifted his chin for a kiss. “If I need your help, you won’t be far.”

“I don’t deserve you,” James remarked, only half-joking as he pulled himself to his feet and climbed back into his own trousers, his movements slowed and made slightly clumsy with fatigue. When he looked up again, sensing Thomas’ stare without the ability to explain how he sensed it, he was gazing at him with all the love in the world sparkling in his eyes.

He reached for James’ hand and intertwined their fingers. “You deserve so much more than you know.”

Despite the rest of the world saying otherwise, James was inclined to believe him. It spoke wonders for Thomas’ natural gift of persuasion—given enough time, he would never fail to convince James to see things his way.

The mid-morning sun shone upon the face of Hal Gates, fist raised to knock on the captain’s door, when James opened it at last.

Thomas, who had frozen beside him with a slight tightening of his grip, was the first to break the silence in an attempt to keep things civil without escalation. “I believe we took a bit longer than we anticipated.”

“It’s all right,” James said very quietly in Thomas’ ear. “He’s not someone we have to worry about.”

There was a clear question in Thomas’ expression, but Gates cut in with an inquiry of his own before he could ask it. “We ain’t gettin’ that ransom, I gather?”

A smile cracked the polite veneer masking Thomas’ terror. “Ransom?” He asked, affecting a wounded tone with the sort of fond look that tied James’ stomach into knots. “How much did you tell them I was worth, exactly?”

“Whatever it was, you’ve paid it back by making that miserable bastard a little less of a miserable bastard,” Gates replied easily, paying no mind that the miserable bastard was present or that he was conspiring with Thomas in front of him. “Do us all a favor, would you? Put His Surliness to sea and help us unload these barrels.”

Thomas pulled a face—a silent, hapless _I have no choice, do I?_ —and gave James’ hand one last, lingering squeeze before Gates dragged him away. “The oars are in the dinghy, Captain Flint.”

The shadows of the quartermaster and acting captain of the _Walrus_ stretched across the planks as they crossed toward the main deck. Above the sounds of shallow, choppy waves splashing against the hull and the distant buzz of a town in waking, James overheard the beginnings of what promised to be a long, colorful tale, as well as the answer to Thomas’ unspoken question of why Gates was not a man to be concerned about.

“Now, did I ever tell you about me mate, Cregg?”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to the lovely [@Bananossauro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bananossauro) for beta reading!


End file.
